I suddenly had a new picture of my marriage to Eleni. It wasn’t like this. It was like one of those mating dances you saw on natural history programmes. There I was, trying to please her, bringing her gifts, leaping back when she looked ready to sting. It had been somehow thin but strenuous; like an animal, I had lived on my wits. I had called that love, but now I wasn’t so sure. What was love anyway? I thought I loved an eleven-year-old boy I had never seen. When had he had a bowl of Frosties from me?

Things were changing. I could hardly remember what the house in Croxley Road looked like. It, too, had been mysteriously tidied now; it wasn’t mine any more. Nothing was, not even my coach.

I wondered if Eleni knew I had gone, and whether she cared. I tried to picture her with the leather-jacketed man and my mind went blank. Did he understand her better than I did? It alarmed me, that I could hardly remember her face. Piff was more real. It was as if I had never been married at all.

I said goodbye to them. They stood in the doorway with their arms around each other; from behind them, the children looked out. They reminded me of the Indian family in Leicester. I seemed to be always peering into other people’s doorways.

It was 8.45. My money was low so I drove to a Nat West. I stopped outside and took my card to the Autobank. Then something happened. I slotted in my card, the window slid back and then the screen said: Please key your personal number. I stood there, my finger outstretched. I couldn’t remember it.

This worried me. Behind me, someone arrived and coughed. I moved away. I had to do something. So I went to a phone booth and rang the estate agents in Orpington—no trouble with their number. They were just opening.

‘I’m looking for a house in Croxley Road,’ I said. ‘Are there any on the market?’

There was a long silence; it lasted four 10ps. Then the girl returned.

‘Nothing in Croxley Road,’ she said. ‘But we’ve a very nice three-bedroomed house in Thresher Road, just round the corner.’

I put down the phone. The bitch. I felt so angry that, in a rush, I suddenly remembered all four numbers of my Autobank code. So I went back and withdrew some money. The notes were crisp and new; they came out warm, as if someone was baking in there. I couldn’t afford them but they comforted me.

Then I bought two packets of Kendal Mint Cake, one for me and one for Edward: a memento of the Lake District for both of us. I bought a football too. I climbed back into the coach, feeling belligerent. Whistling What is this thing called plaque, I headed for the M6.

It was a grey day but I felt better once I was on the road. I always did. Just to see the miles flick past on the dial raised the old spirits. The only thing that felt normal to me now was my seat, with Bernie’s greasy satin cushion wedged into the small of my back, the familiar arrangement of stickers on the side window, my ribbed steering wheel and the oft-ignored sign thanking me for not smoking. The speedometer was more familiar to me than my ex-wife’s face. I had done a spot of housework that morning—emptying my ashtray, throwing out my Polo wrappers and crisp packets. I had bought myself a box of Kleenex. I wore clean clothes. I had bathed and shaved. These small things meant a lot to me by now.